If I Should Die Before I Wake
by CrystallineMaple
Summary: Twenty-four strangers from different countries are invited on a luxurious vacation. However, once they enter the vacation estate, they find they are unable to leave. It can't get any worse—until people begin to die one by one. What's happening? Who will get out alive? And most importantly, who is the killer? Multiple slight pairings.
1. Welcome

_I've never really written a story like this - what with murder and all_—_so go easy on me. There will be a lot of characters, though, but don't worry. It should be pretty easy to keep up, even with a few plot lines running simultaneously. With that said, please enjoy!_

* * *

"Mr. Kirkland, there's something here for you."

Arthur Kirkland straightened his posture and allowed his assistant to enter the room. "Oh? What is it?"

"It's a letter, sir. For a free vacation!"

Renowned author Mr. Kirkland took a sip of his Earl Grey Tea. "Those things are fake, dear. I don't think I'd get a free vacation. Besides, I'm too busy to go."

The assistant frowned, tapping her French manicured nails on her boss' desk. "But, sir, I checked out this so-called resort—it's definitely real. Very exclusive, very expensive. But they've invited you. According to this letter, they've selected twenty-four random, hardworking people for a 'refreshment cycle.' All free, sir."

"And when, may I ask, is this?" Mr. Kirkland raised a rather large eyebrow questioningly.

"Oh, you'd have to pack your bags tonight, sir. This vacation begins tomorrow and is a week—here's the address. I do think it'd suit you to go!"

Arthur leaned back in his chair, shrugging. "We'll see..."

* * *

"You're sure this is the place?"

"When am I ever wrong?"

Two men stepped out of a BMW, handing their keys to a valet. The taller one was blond-haired, blue-eyed, and stern looking, the shorter one had even lighter hair and ruby-colored eyes that tended to scare the living daylights out of most adults. Both were exceedingly handsome.

"It looks a little fancy," the blond remarked, though he slung his bag over his shoulder and followed the shorter man. They had received a letter in the mail, summoning them to a weeklong free vacation. Though why in the world—some refreshment cycle? Please.

"Ludwig," the shorter man called, eyeing the sweeping mansion where everyone was to stay. "Quit daydreaming!"

Ludwig shook his head. "Yes, yes, coming, Gilbert."

The door was very tall, arching into the sky, and with great difficulty, Gilbert and Ludwig managed to pull it open. The thing was way heavier than it looked. And it looked pretty heavy.

A young, smiling receptionist with a mane of flowing black hair stood at the counter. "Hello! Part of the refreshment cycle, I assume?"

"Yes," Gilbert said. "Gilbert and Ludwig Beilschmidt."

The receptionist smiled. "Oh, the German Brothers, no?"

"Sorry, ma'am—I hope you don't mind my asking, but what exactly is the refreshment cycle?" Ludwig asked. "He snatched the paper away before I could read it." Ludwig threw a pointed glance at his older brother. Gilbert discreetly stuck out his tongue.

"Not at all!" the receptionist exclaimed, laughing. "The owner of this mansion and estate is a very generous man. He selected twenty-four people—some famous, some not—who are all hardworking and intelligent. These people—you are one of them—will be staying here for a week in full comfort and relaxation. You all are known as the refreshment cycle."

Ludwig nodded, though the situation still seemed a bit odd to him. "I see. So, is—" Ludwig broke off when the door was slowly and laboriously pushed open, and another person, carrying a messenger bag and a small rolling suitcase, stepped into the entryway.

"Simply put," the receptionist said to Ludwig before addressing the newcomer, "this mansion is paradise for everyone, but watch your step. Oh, hello, ma'am! Can I help you?"

The newcomer didn't smile. "Arlovskaya," she said.

The receptionist grinned from ear to ear. "Miss Arlovskaya? You're incredible! I'm a fan."

A tiny smile graced Miss Arlovskaya's lips, who didn't appear older than twenty. "Yes, thank you very much."

"Who are you?" Gilbert asked. Ludwig frowned. "Be polite!"

Miss Arlovskaya turned to face Gilbert, her dark, piercing eyes glaring at him. "My name's Natalia Arlovskaya."

Gilbert nodded. "Right. Of course."

Natalia frowned. "Are you mocking me, sir?"

Gilbert snickered. "Should I know you, _Miss Arlovskaya?" _

"Oh, oh!" the receptionist seemed joyous. "Mr. Beilschmidt, you haven't heard of Miss Arlovskaya? She was one of the representatives for Belarus in the Winter Olympics."

"Ah, an Olympian, huh?" Gilbert said, though at least his voice was filled with admiration. "What sport?"

"Figure skating," Natalia replied sharply. "Now, ma'am, where is my room?"

"Of course, Miss Arlovskaya. This way..." Natalia and the receptionist disappeared down one of the many hallways branching off the entryway.

"This place is huge!" Gilbert exclaimed. The entry hallway alone was extremely extravagant—high ceilings, sparkling walls, glittering chandelier. Gilbert begin walking down a hallway, trying to find his assigned room, and dragged Ludwig along by the wrist. Ludwig followed, but felt somewhat unsettled—what had the receptionist meant, exactly? 'Watch your step?' Maybe there were a lot of stairs. Maybe...

"Ludwig! For God's sake, you've gotta learn how to stop zoning out every five seconds."

"I want to go home," Ludwig said quietly, though there was no one in earshot.

"Home?" Gilbert exclaimed. "But, Ludwig, I —come on, stay for a day. Let's see how it goes. Please. A day! We never get free vacations!"

"Alright, alright," Ludwig relented, holding up a hand. "A day. I'll see how it goes. But if something bad happens..."

"Yeah. Hey, look!" Gilbert pointed at a map of the mansion mounted on the wall. "Look, there's a café in here—c'mon, it'll be awesome. Let's go!"

When Ludwig and Gilbert finally found their way to the mansion's café, two people were sitting in there, sipping coffee but sitting on opposite sides of the room. A young man with dirty-blond hair and a cowlick sat in one corner, and Gilbert immediately ran over to him. The kid loudly introduced himself as Alfred Jones, and the two began chatting animatedly. Ludwig took a look at the other person.

A man with darker hair who appeared to be in his mid-twenties was the other conversational option. Ludwig walked over to the quieter man.

"Hello, my name's Ludwig Beilschmidt."

The man looked up from his newspaper, startled. "Oh. Oh, pleasure. I'm Roderich Edelstein. Want to sit?"

Ludwig pulled a chair out from the table. "Where'd you get the coffee? I don't see any workers in here."

Roderich snorted. "I made it myself. There's some stuff over there. This is a very bizarre place, Mr. Beilschmidt. The only workers here appear to be the valet I dropped my car off with and the receptionist in the entryway. There's no one else here, besides the other people in the refreshment cycle. Which you are in, yes?"

"Yes. How odd."

"That's your friend over there?" Roderich asked, motioning politely at Gilbert.

Ludwig sighed. "No, that's my brother."

"Hmm. How old is he?"

"Twenty-four," Ludwig replied, sighing again.

Roderich looked amused. "So am I. And you, Mr. Beilschmidt? May I ask your age?"

Ludwig paused awkwardly. "Err, I'm eighteen."

Roderich's eyes widened. "Surely not. You're very mature. You are eighteen, yet you chose to speak to a twenty-four year-old. Your brother is twenty-four, yet he chose to speak to an eighteen year-old. Strange."

"You've spoken to that other guy?"

"Alfred? Yes. Eighteen. Last year in high school. Very loud, very annoying! He gave me a headache." Roderich punctuated his comments by tapping his hand against the table in frustration. His coffee cup rattled precariously.

"Mr. Edelstein?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you speak German?"

Roderich smiled. "Have all my life, Mr. Beilschmidt. Now, why don't we meet some of these people in the refreshment cycle?"

Ludwig stood up, misgivings gone. "Yes, let's go."

The two waited in the entry hall with the receptionist and became acquainted with the next few people to walk through the door—a photographer named Mathias Køhler; a doctor named Ivan Braginsky; an author named Arthur Kirkland.

Though the sprawling estate was grand in every possible way, Ludwig felt further unsettled when there appeared to be no one else in the mansion besides him and the other twenty-three guests. The receptionist and the valet were gone.

But Ludwig ignored his thoughts when a voice came from the small speakers mounted in every room and announced it was time for dinner.


	2. Day 1 - Dinner

It was raining outside.

Not a gentle drizzle. A torrent, complete with occasional flashes of lightning and rumbling thunder.

Kiku Honda walked down a brightly lit hallway with red carpet, following instructions from a map—seriously, the mansion was big enough to need a _map_—until the twenty-two year old mangaka found his way to a large pair of tall oak doors, nearly as big as the giant entryway ones. From the delicious smells coming from the door, Kiku could tell it was the dining room.

The Japanese man pushed one door open and—_wow._

One long table sat in the middle of the room, tiny namecards waiting at each seat, twenty-four in total. A giant, sparkling chandelier hung from the ceiling, radiating dazzling brightness. Even though the sky outside was dark, the mansion was so well-lit that Kiku had to squint slightly. Two small indoor fountains bordered the oak doors, one on each side. Despite the excess of light, beautiful candlesticks with lit candles sat on the table.

The food was waiting. About five guests had already shown up, and as Kiku Honda wandered around the table to find his marked seat, he took note of the names on the place cards. Kiku was slightly surprised by the names. Only one or two of the names on the cards seemed American. And they were, after all, in America.

Kiku found his seat. Someone was already sitting next to him. Kiku glanced at the card: Mei Xiao. She was very pretty.

"Hello, my name is Kiku Honda," Kiku offered. She put down her fork and smiled. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Honda. I'm Mei Xiao."

"Wonderful to make your acquaintance, Miss Xiao. How are you enjoying this vacation so far?"

She laughed—a clear, pure sound. "Well, it's free. It seems a bit much for me, though. I'm a rather simple girl. I don't normally like too many luxuries."

"I understand. What do you do for a living?"

"Well, I'm eighteen. I'm still in school. But I'm homeschooled because I play the violin."

Kiku titled his head questioningly.

"I mean, I perform a lot and such..."

"Very talented!" Kiku exclaimed, reaching for a pitcher of green tea and pouring himself a glass.

"But," Mei inquired, "what about yourself, Mr. Honda? What do you do?"

"Ah, I draw manga. I feel silly compared to you, though."

Mei widened her eyes. "No, no, don't at all! You make art, and that's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Thank you, Miss Xiao. Have you met anyone else here?" Kiku asked, trying to change the subject. Mei helped him by saying, "Yes, I spoke to a college student named Lukas Bondevik, and an older man—a lawyer—Mr. Oxenstierna, I believe? Kind of scary, though I won't judge. Swedish man."

"People here seem... kind," Kiku said conversationally, watching as the door opened and another person walked in, eyebrows raised as she took in the view. She found her seat further down the table at the spot marked 'Elizaveta Héderváry.'

"I wonder why we were called here," Mei remarked. "And this food—delicious. Who made it?"

"Thank you, _ma chérie_. I did," came a voice from behind the two Asians. Mei and Kiku turned to see an attractive blond man with a French accent. He held out his hand. Kiku shook it, and the man kissed Mei's cheek. Mei and Kiku introduced themselves.

"I'm Francis Bonnefoy. It seems I am the chef," the Frenchman said in response.

"Oh. Oh, you work here?" Mei asked.

Francis paused for a second. "No. But I am part of a refreshment cycle, I heard, and they told me I could come here for free, so long as I cook for everyone. It's a good deal, and they supplied all the things I need to make anything I'd like. Cooking is my job, after all. What about you two? I don't believe I've spoken to either of you yet. I did see your names on the list, though."

"What list?" Kiku asked.

"In the second-floor lounge, there is this big piece of framed paper on the wall. It has everyone's names."

"Really! Could you show me after dinner?" Mei asked.

_"Oui,_ of course, Miss Xiao."

* * *

There was indeed a big framed poster in the lounge, listing name after name. Twenty-four names, to be exact.

Kiku cleared his throat and began to read the names out loud to Francis and Mei.

"Natalia Arlovskaya, Gilbert Beilschmidt, Ludwig Beilschmidt, Eduard von Bock, Lukas Bondevik, Francis Bonnefoy, Ivan Braginsky, Katyusha Braginskaya, Roderich Edelstein, Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo, Raivis Galante, Elizaveta Héderváry, Kiku Honda, Alfred Jones, Arthur Kirkland, Mathias Køhler, Toris Laurinaitis, Michelle Mancham, Berwald Oxenstierna, Im Yong Soo, Feliciano Vargas, Lovino Vargas, Yao Wang, Mei Xiao."

Kiku frowned as he read. Were there really only twenty-four people in the giant mansion, big enough to fit five times the number of people currently in it?

What had happened to the valet? To the receptionist?

Francis struck a match from the silver box that had been sitting on the mantelpiece, starting a fire in the giant fireplace.

Kiku felt uncomfortable. "Please excuse me. I'm retiring for the night."

With that, the Japanese man turned and left quietly, his shoes soundless on the soft, plush carpet. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him...

* * *

A bit of Kiku's fears were alleviated when he saw the receptionist the next morning during breakfast, helping Francis pass out food and serving people with a pleasant smile. Kiku, slouching in relief, walked right up to her.

"Excuse me, I didn't catch your name yesterday."

She smiled. "You may call me Travail, dear. I'm here to take care of the estate and make sure you all are comfortable."

_Travail, huh? Isn't that French? You look like me... you look Asian... but then again, you might not have grown up in Asia. I shouldn't stereotype, _Kiku thought.

"Did you leave the mansion grounds last night?" he asked instead.

Travail looked surprised. "I did, Mr. Honda. I do not sleep here. Nor does the valet. I am not sure where he is, though..." Travail frowned, then turned to call to someone else. "Oh, Miss Braginskaya, would you care for some more toast?"

The oak doors of the dining hall opened once again, and two men walked in. Both had olive-colored skin and shades of brown hair, and though they were speaking another language—Italian, probably—Kiku could tell that one of the brothers was still marveling over the grandeur of the giant, bright hall; and the other was complaining.

Travail, who had been busy serving Miss Braginskaya breakfast, froze. "Please excuse me," the dark-haired lady said quickly, setting down a tray that held several servings of yogurt and fruit. Then she hurried out of the dining hall, muttering quietly to herself, her obsidian-colored eyes wide in surprise.


	3. Day 2 - Morning

Breakfast was delicious, naturally—servings of granola-and-yogurt parfaits, bacon, waffles, spreads of fruit—but Lukas Bondevik still felt unsettled. He'd spoken with some pleasant people the day before. A nice girl, Elizaveta, was it? And two German guys, Mr. Beilschmidt and Mr. Edelstein, or something like that. But still.

The college student turned to the man sitting to his right. Mathias, right?

"Mr. Køhler?" Lukas asked in his monotonous voice. He _hated _his voice. Mathias looked up from the waffles he was sawing in half with his knife. "Yeah?"

"I'm thinking of taking a walk after breakfast, would it bother you terribly to accompany me?" Despite Lukas' dull tone, his eyes glittered with intelligence, and adults had always praised him for his polite nature.

"Okay, sure. Just let me finish these." Mathias used his fork to point at his plate, which was swimming in maple syrup. Lukas nodded and poked around at his scrambled eggs, appetite gone.

In a matter of minutes, Mathias finished his entire breakfast and stood up. "Ready to go, Mr. Bondevik?"

The smiley Ukrainian woman skipped up to them, grinning. "Are you two going for a walk? May I join you?"

"Of course, Miss Braginskaya," Mathias said cordially. It was clear the two had already met.

"I'm Lukas Bondevik," Lukas said. "It's nice to meet you."

"Hello, dear. I'm Katyusha Braginskaya."

The three acquaintances navigated their way to the entryway, pushing open the heavy front doors with excruciating effort. The heavy rain from the previous night had stopped, but the sky was overcast, and mist curled up from the lush, green grass, giving the world the appearance of a darkening dream.

"Kind of chilly, isn't it?" Mathias commented. "Why don't we walk along the road?"

The road—Lukas flinched, remembering driving in. He had been driving on regular asphalt road when he reached a small wooden bridge that spanned a wide, rushing river. The bridge had been sturdy, but the second he crossed it and found himself on land again, the road turned into a path of interwoven bricks, giving it a beautiful appearance but making it rather unpleasant to drive on. Still, walking on it was fine, and Lukas found himself thoroughly enjoying the way the bricks looked.

After a few minutes of walking, Lukas and the others could hear the loud, unmistakable noise of water rushing. The river.

"There's a big river bordering the estate property, no?" Katyusha asked, and Mathias nodded in agreement.

Another bit of walking revealed the river—very wide and very fast-moving. Trying to swim in that would probably get you swept away and killed. It was the only exit, since Lukas had noticed when driving in that the river surrounded the mansion estate on all sides—it was a property built on a little island of grassy land. Which was a bad thing now, because the tiny bridge that connected the asphalt and brick roads—_that connected the estate to the outside world_—was gone.

It was impossible to leave.

* * *

"Morning, Mr. Laurinaitis—did you have a nice rest?"

"I did. Oh, more coffee?"

"Yes, thanks."

Toris Laurinaitis and Eduard von Bock had met the previous day during the evening meal, and Toris found that Eduard was pleasant and vice versa.

"This parfait's good."

"Is it? Try the bacon, too, it's excellent—" Toris was in the middle of handing Eduard a plate of bacon and sliced ham when the dining hall doors burst open.

Eduard raised his eyebrow. "What's going on?"

"Excuse me, everyone! My name is Katyusha Braginskaya, and I was walking with Mr. Bondevik and Mr. Køhler, and we found... that is to say..."

"The bridge to the main road is gone," Lukas clarified. "Burned down without a second thought. So let me tell you all—we can't go anywhere now. That was our only exit."

Confused murmurs spread through the hall, filling the room, echoing strangely because of the high ceiling.

"Who'd burn it down?" Michelle Mancham asked. "What are we going to do?"

"Wait, wait." Arthur Kirkland stood up. "How do you three know the bridge was burned down? Maybe it collapsed."

"No," Lukas replied coldly. "The grass where both ends of the bridge would have been is charred and black, and it kind of smells like gasoline. If you'd like to see it yourself, go ahead, but—"

The author narrowed his emerald-green eyes. "I think I will," he said deliberately. "Please excuse me." He exited the dining hall, muttering to himself.

* * *

"Hey! You work here, right?"

"Oh. Mr. Jones." Travail nodded and walked over to the American teen, who was sitting in the second-floor lounge, the one with the framed list of names. "I do. My name's Travail."

"Okay, Ms. Travail, do you know what happened to the bridge?"

"No, I am sorry. It is confusing, isn't it? But why are you in here?"

"Oh... is this off-limits?" Alfred asked. "Sorry."

"Of course not. Make yourself at home! It's just that most of the guests went to the edge of the property to check out the missing bridge—but you are not one of them?"

"Nope," Alfred replied. "I believe Mr. Bondevik. Anyway, how are we going to get out of here?"

"The estate owner should send us help..."

Alfred nodded slowly. "Mmhmm. And where's the valet? Where's my car?"

Travail's cheeks reddened. "I—I do not know, because he didn't park the cars on the property, so it's impossible to reach them. For the time being, at least. I'm sorry."

"Ms. Travail, I'm hungry. Can you show me where the kitchen is?"

Travail jumped. "Of course, Mr. Jones. Shall I make you something?"

Alfred shook his head. "Oh, no! That's not necessary."

"Then I'll direct you to the kitchen. This way, please..."

* * *

"It really was burned," Arthur said in wonder.

Lukas frowned. "I told you."

Many of the guests had followed Lukas back out to the burned bridge—which was, in fact, gone, with the acrid scent of gasoline hanging in the crisp air.

"Don't be rude," Katyusha scolded gently. "We're all under stress. But that receptionist—Travail, I believe—said the estate owner was going to send help?"

Mei cried out in surprise. "But that could take a long time!"

"Oh, don't worry, dear," Katyusha said warmly, resting a hand on the violinist's shoulder. "We'll be fine. After all, our living conditions are more than luxurious, and we've got plenty of supplies to last us—is that correct, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

Francis looked up from the withered grass. "Certainly, _mademoiselle._ We've enough food to last weeks. Months, even."

"With twenty-four people?" Mei asked skeptically.

Francis nodded. "I assure you, Miss Xiao, you will not be going hungry anytime soon."

Gilbert stretched. "Yeah, it'll be fine. We'll get help in two, three days at most."

Despite Francis' brave comments, he still looked uneasy. "I suppose I should start preparing lunch," he ventured. "I'll be in the kitchen. Excuse me."

"If only we had cell service," Gilbert sighed.

Mei's eyes widened. "Huh? Your phone doesn't work?"

Gilbert shook his head. "Not a single bar. What, yours does?"

"I don't know—mine's charging in my room."

"This isn't so much a refreshment cycle as a stress cycle," Roderich Edelstein complained, zipping up his jacket. "I'm retiring to the List Lounge for the morning. Please summon me when lunch is ready."

"What a sissy!" Gilbert snorted when the Austrian man was out of earshot. "What's the List Lounge anyway?"

"Be polite," Ludwig snapped. "The List Lounge is the second-story lounge—with the name list."

The two brothers had a quick conversation in German, then Ludwig said, "Excuse us, too. We'll be returning to the mansion. Please let us know if you find anything."

"What a respectful kid," Ivan Braginsky commented. "How'd someone like him end up with a brother like so?"

"Dr. Braginksy," Arthur said. "As a doctor, I trust that you understand that blood is not everything?"

Ivan looked down at the brick road, embarrassed. "Kindly refrain."

Soon, everyone had returned to the mansion. Everyone except for Katyusha and Mei.

"Miss Braginskaya," Mei said, "what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a teacher, dear. I cannot believe I, in this lifetime, have a chance to meet you. Amazing. The refreshment cycle letter said it would be a mix of famous and non-famous people, but I wasn't expecting someone like you. And Mr. Kirkland. It's a lot to take in."

Mei stared out at the rushing river. "You know me?"

Katyusha chuckled. "Of course I do, Mei. I'm a big fan of yours. Sometimes I play your CD during class. Students love it. I actually went and saw a concert of yours once."

Mei smiled. "Miss Braginskaya?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you... do you think the bridge was burned down on purpose?" Mei's dark eyes didn't stray from the river.

"I'm sorry, Mei. I do not know." Katyusha sighed. "I simply do not know."


	4. Day 2 - Afternoon

The gloomy morning was mostly uneventful after that. No one wanted to leave the mansion, but there was a common room on the third floor that had a giant flatscreen and a box of movies. The younger girls—Natalia, Elizaveta, and Mei—hunkered down on one of the dark leather couches with a bowl of popcorn. Katyusha and Michelle Mancham, a bombshell twenty-four year old fashion designer, sat by the room's fireplace and talked quietly, so as not to disturb the teenagers.

Katyusha's motherly instincts took over. "Girls, do you want me to bring you some drinks from downstairs?"

"Water, please," Elizaveta said, her eyes still on the screen.

Natalia nodded. "Two waters."

"I'll have a bit of coffee—I think Lukas made some," Mei added.

Michelle smiled nostalgically. "Oh, to be young again..."

Katyusha laughed quietly, moving away from the warm fire. "What are you talking about? You're plenty young."

"I guess," Michelle replied. "Anyway, I do think lunch should be ready soon, right? But, ugh—I hope this rain passes soon. It's so dark outside."

"I'm going to get drinks," Katyusha said. "Do you want anything, Miss Mancham?"

"If Mei was right, and there is any coffee, I'll take some, please."

Katyusha made her way down to the first floor. A few people were playing cards in the List Lounge, and Roderich, Ludwig, and Gilbert were sitting in another room on the second story, reading and solving a puzzle. Though Michelle had complained about the weather, Katyusha found the steady drum of the rain comforting.

When Katyusha came into the majestic Dining Hall, which had a door leading to the kitchen, she found Francis and another man sitting at the long table, talking.

"What's going on?" the Ukrainian woman questioned, stepping into the room. Her feet sank into the plush Turkish carpet, and she wondered how rich the owner of the mansion must've been.

Francis looked up. "Oh. Miss Braginskaya. Have you met Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo yet?"

"No. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Katyusha. Now, what's the matter? Why do you look so upset?"

"Ah, um, we found—" Francis broke off, his sentence unfinished sentence hanging in the air.

"Blood," Antonio whispered. His green eyes were wide in fear and confusion.

Katyusha froze. "Blood? Where?"

"In the kitchen," Francis said, his voice trembling. "I went in to start making lunch after looking at the bridge. There was blood all over the floor—_everywhere_—and one of the kitchen knives is missing. Something terrible has happened."

"But... isn't everyone still here?" Katyusha felt numb. "Isn't that true?"

Antonio lowered his eyes. "Miss Braginskaya, Travail is gone."

* * *

"And... I win." Lukas slapped his hand of cards down on the table. "Another round?"

"Ugh," Mathias complained, collapsing. "You always win, Bondevik. I give up. I suck."

A thin smile appeared on Berwald Oxenstierna's lips. "First rule, Mr. Køhler: Never admit you are wrong."

"Easy for you to say, you attorney," Mathias grumbled. "Fine, one more round. But I swear, if you—"

"Hey!"

Lukas, Mathias, and Berwald snapped their attention from the cards to the doorway of the List Lounge, where Eduard von Bock was standing.

"What's wrong?" Mathias asked, standing up and turning his phone off. He had hooked it up to a dock, and it had been playing his music for some background noise.

"Franics Bonnefoy wants everyone downstairs in the Dining Hall _now. _No exceptions."

"Bonnefoy... the cook, right?" Berwald asked, adjusting his glasses and gathering his cards back into a stack. "What does he want?"

Eduard shook his head. "Please, just go downstairs. I'm sorry."

The three Scandinavians exchanged unanimous puzzled looks and headed to the staircase, their card game forgotten.

* * *

Within fifteen minutes, everyone was in the Dining Hall, sitting at their marked seats and chatting quietly. Everyone was present. Every seat was filled.

But there was no Travail.

Francis stood up, waving his hand for silence. "_Excusez-moi!_ Um, fellow members of the refreshment cycle. I have news."

The cavernous room quieted considerably, and alert eyes met Francis'.

"After I saw the bridge, I came inside to start working on lunch," Francis began, taking a deep breath. "I can see that you are all here. But the receptionist, Travail, is not. I believe she was murdered. When I came to the kitchen, there was blood on the floor, the walls, the counters. A kitchen knife is missing. That is all."

Murmurs spread through the crowd, terrified and upset.

Arthur raised a hand. "If I may speak? I'm no detective. I'm an author. But I do believe that, when we all went to look at the bridge, one person stayed behind." Arthur's emerald-colored eyes scanned the room. "Mr. Jones stayed in the kitchen. Wouldn't that be around the time...?"

Alfred jumped up from his chair. "Bullshit! I didn't murder anyone. I just went to get a snack! I'm sorry, I didn't realize eating was a federal crime!"

"Now, now," Francis said. "Please, let's calm down."

Berwald stood up. "Mr. Jones. Did you use the kitchen knife while you were in there?"

"Ja, Berwald, cross-examine the hell out of this situation," Mathias called.

"No," Alfred said. "I ate an apple."

"And why did you eat?" Berwald pressed.

"I was hungry."

"Right after breakfast?"

"Mr. Oxenstierna," Ivan interrupted. "I am well aware that you are a respectable and extremely qualified attorney-at-law. But Alfred Jones is a teenager, and as I'm sure even you know, teenagers must eat constantly due to growth spurts and changes."

Berwald sat back down. "We are trying to get information, Dr. Braginsky. No one is accusing Alfred."

"Well, Mr. Kirkland is," Alfred interjected angrily.

"If there is a murderer among us," Mei said shakily, "we need to know who it is."

"We don't even know for sure that Travail was murdered," Ivan added. "She doesn't stay at the mansion over night."

"But there's no way she could have left," Berwald argued. "The bridge is gone."

"Maybe _she_ burned it down!" Katyusha exclaimed.

Alfred shook his head, his dark blond hair ruffling out of place. "That isn't possible. After everyone went to the bridge, I asked Ms. Travail to show me to the kitchen. She was still on the estate."

A clap of thunder shook the sky, and the lights flickered out. The candles on the table weren't lit, and without the light from the chandelier or the sun, the room was dark and shadowy, a drastic contrast from how bright it had been moments ago. The sound of rain intensified as a storm moved by overhead, and the room was silent with dread.

Natalia stood up. "I am going to my room."

"Lunch?" Francis asked nervously, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

"No." Natalia stood up, flipped her hair over her shoulder with artistic elegance, and walked out of the Dining Hall. Her steps were the quiet, graceful tread of a true figure skater. Despite her cool beauty, Natalia would be a formidable enemy.

The Belarusian teen made her way down the hallway until she came to the entry room, and without electricity, it wasn't so blinding. It was kind of eerie, actually.

Natalia paused. There was something on the ground, something next to the outline a big crate, and a strange smell—flowers?—enveloped the space. Natalia stepped closer, squinting through the dark, and then jerked back in alarm.

She couldn't help it. She was strong. She had to train seven hours a day. But that didn't keep her entire breakfast from coming up and spilling onto the floor. Natalia screamed hysterically and moved back until she hit the wall. She heard footsteps. The others would be there in seconds.

"No... no... no, no, no," Natalia cried over and over, resting her head between her knees. She was terrified and disgusted.

Next to the large crate, wearing a crown of blood red roses, was Travail's dead body.


	5. Day 2 - Dusk

"What's the matter?! Miss Arlovskaya?"

"Is everything all right?!"

"Oh my _God! _Is she _DEAD?!"_

Natalia screamed, burying her face in her hands while the rest of the guests rushed into the room.

"Natalia," Elizaveta cried, running over to the girl and shaking her shoulder. "What happened?"

"I—I don't—know... no, no, no..."

Elizaveta patted Natalia's shoulder as comfortingly as she could manage, but the scene in front of her made her want to pass out. Travail was dead. Elizaveta looked at the body warily, her eyes passing over the crown of roses and the flower petals scattered everywhere. She wished the lights would turn on, but at the same time, she didn't want to see what had happened in detail.

"There's something in her pocket," Arthur said quietly. Berwald walked over to the body and picked it up. "It is an ID card, but there is a slight problem..."

"What?" Alfred asked, staring up at the high ceiling and trying to block out the sounds of Natalia's distressed cries.

"It's in Vietnamese, I believe." Berwald handed Alfred the card. "The only thing that I am able to verify is that her name is Lien Chung."

"Another thing," Ivan said, crouching by Travail's corpse. "We think the blood in the kitchen came from her, but that is impossible. You see here, yes? Miss Travail—or Miss Chung, or whatever her name is—was strangled. There are no visible wounds on her body. The blood could not have been hers."

"But, Dr. Braginsky..." Michelle broke off. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely positive, Miss Mancham. The cause of death here appears to be strangulation or hanging. No cuts."

"Then _where _did the blood come from?" Francis asked, eyes wide with fear.

Berwald took the ID card back from Alfred. "Alright, ev'ryone. We have established a couple of facts. The receptionist who called herself Travail is actually a Vietnamese citizen named Lien Chung. She is twenty-two years old. She was murdered, but we still don't know whose blood was in the kitchen."

"And our phones still aren't working," Mei cried. "We have no one to call. No way to get out of here now that the bridge is gone."

"That's why they had a valet," Ludwig said slowly, things clicking into place. "So that we wouldn't have our cars. And then they burned the only exit bridge down."

"Someone here is a murderer," Katyusha said. "Look outside. It's been storming buckets. Even if we believed that someone was coming from the outside—maybe on a boat or something—to kill us, they wouldn't be able to make it anywhere in this weather."

"What's in there?" Lovino Vargas demanded, pointing at the giant wooden crate. Ivan pulled the lid off the crate and felt his heart drop. _"God. _Weapons. They're weapons."

Berwald glanced into the crate. Loose rose petals drifted from the box, but other than that it was filled top to bottom with weapons. Handguns. Shotguns. Knives. Bows and arrows. A baseball bat. A metal pipe. An ax. All sorts of things. "Help me," Ivan said to Berwald, and both men picked up either side of the crate and tipped it over, sending the weapons clattering onto the floor.

"What are you _doing?" _Mathias demanded, eyeing a sturdy battleax that landed near his foot.

"There are twenty-four weapons," Ivan said. "One for each of us?"

"NO!" Natalia shrieked. "Don't touch them! Don't kill us!"

"Please relax, Miss Arlovskaya," Berwald replied. "We have no desire to kill anyone in here. Please remain calm. However, it may be appropriate if we each take a weapon, just to protect ourselves in case... in case the killer comes after us?" He tried to sound authoritative, but the slight lilt at the end of his sentence made it seem like he was asking a question. In truth, he was very shaken up about Lien Chung and whatever murder had just occurred.

Gilbert looked at the mountain of weapons and roses, then at Lien's body. "Someone please move her. Please, before I throw up, too."

Lovino and Ivan moved Lien to the corner of the room. A trail of rose petals fluttered behind her, looking vaguely like blood splatters in the dim room. A clap of thunder made everyone jump, and Berwald cleared his throat nervously. "So, a weapon for everyone?"

"We shouldn't use the weapons," Yao Wang said. "It would be dangerous. It _is _dangerous, aru."

"Fine." Ivan pulled his mouth into a frown. "If you do not want a weapon, do not take one, yes? But do not complain when you are murdered and have nothing to fight back with. Even a small knife would be better than nothing."

"Please, that wasn't a comforting way to say it, Dr. Braginsky..." Katyusha didn't want a weapon, but she _did _want protection from whoever was doing all of this.

"Well, then, everyone select a weapon," Alfred said bitterly. "I suppose Mr. Oxensteirna and Dr. Braginsky will decide if what you picked is just and fair, because apparently someone died and made them both kings."

Berwald frowned. "Mr. Jones, I have no desire to make things unpleasant."

"I'll take the baseball bat, then," Alfred said. Ivan tossed him the bat, his mouth twisted into a scowl. Mei held up her phone timidly. "I've got my Notes app open. I'll record the weapons that each person receives, if that's all right."

Berwald forced a smile. "Thank you, Miss Xiao."

There was a lull as everyone selected weapons, looking at each other for wary approval. Mei selected a bow and a quiver of arrows for herself, then began recording the weapon choices of the other guests. Lovino Vargas picked a handgun, Ivan Braginsky chose the metal pipe, Mathias Køhler grabbed the ax, and Natalia Arlovskaya selected a few throwing knives. Mei thought that those wouldn't do Natalia much good until she saw the Belarusian toss one of the knives. Yikes.

Within thirty minutes, even the most reluctant of the guests had chosen weapons, and they had all been inventoried. Mei handed the list to Berwald to copy down.

Mei Xiao - Bow and Arrows (Arrow Count: 12)

Alfred Jones - Baseball Bat

Natalia Arlovskaya - Throwing Knives (Knife Count: 6)

Arthur Kirkland - Dagger

Francis Bonnefoy - Revolver

Ivan Braginsky - Metal Pipe

Yao Wang - Dao

Elizaveta Héderváry - Crossbow (Arrow Count: 12)

Gilbert Beilschmidt - Rifle

Feliciano Vargas - Handgun

Mathias Køhler - Ax

Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo - Slingshot (Ammo Count: 100)

Lovino Vargas - Handgun

Kiku Honda - Katana

Roderich Edelstein - Cleaver

Eduard von Bock - Tranquilizing Dart Gun (Dart Count: 12)

Yong-Soo Im - Knife

Lukas Bondevik - Sword

Katyusha Braginskaya - Sickle

Berwald Oxenstierna - Metal Staff

Toris Laurinaitis - Throwing Knives (Knife Count: 6)

Raivis Galante - Bow and Arrows (Arrow Count: 12)

Ludwig Beilschmidt - Pistol

Michelle Mancham - Shotgun

"Lunch is ready," Francis called from the Dining Hall. Berwald and Mei exchanged an uneasy look, and rather unwittingly, Mei felt her hand tighten around her bow. Geez. This so-called 'refreshment cycle' was turning into some twisted mix of _The Hunger Games _and _Survivor. _"I'm going to go eat," Mei said.

Inside the Dining Hall, only about a dozen or so people had shown up. The rest of the guests had probably barricaded themselves into their rooms, waiting for a rescue that was most likely not coming, weapons drawn and senses alert. Lunch consisted of a delicious chicken salad and more fruit, but the atmosphere of the room was absolutely suffocating. At some point during the meal, the lights flickered back on, but the rain didn't stop at all.

Mathias was trying to have another pleasant conversation with Lukas, but everyone was so jumpy that eventually the Dane gave up and headed up the stairs to the List Lounge. He spotted Elizaveta reading a copy of _The Fault in Our Stars _and Natalia watching another movie. He went inside and said hello to them, then attempted to focus on the movie flashing across the television screen. Everyone was beginning to recognize each other, which was good and bad. Good because Mathias liked having friends.

Bad because it'd be devastating if another person died.

And Mathias' instincts told him that things were going to end very, very badly.


	6. Day 2 - Evening

_I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please let me know what you think of this story! _

* * *

"Would you _please _quit doing that?" Arthur Kirkland snapped. "You're making me extremely nervous."

"Sorry," Francis replied absentmindedly, setting his revolver down on the floor. He and a ragtag assortment of other refreshment cycle guests were sitting in the List Lounge, watching television or the rain or the fire raging in the fireplace. Francis had been messing with his revolver all day, more out of jumpiness than anything else.

"Russian roulette?" Ivan asked from across the room. He'd looked up from his novel to partake in the conversation.

"As a doctor, you should not condone such dangerous things," Francis replied.

"I am not," Ivan said.

"What? Condoning it? Or a doctor?" Arthur replied sarcastically. His eyes flickered over the television—Elizaveta and Michelle had turned on some American singing competition, but he wasn't that interested—and he looked back over at Ivan. The Russian man's violet eyes held challenge and defiance in them. Arthur rolled his eyes and stood up.

"Where are you going, Mr. Kirkland?" Michelle asked, looking over from where she was sitting.

"I'm going to go get my laptop," Arthur replied.

"Are you writing something?" Elizaveta questioned excitedly. "Your books are very interesting. I read that one you wrote a year or so ago, _The Great Wo_—"

Ivan coughed. "You know, Miss Héderváry, you don't have to be so kind to him. It is not necessary."

"Thank you," Arthur said, ignoring Ivan. "I'm going to go now."

Michelle stared at the fire, digging her toes against the soft rug in the List Lounge. "So, what do you all like to do in your free time?" She glanced around the room. Francis was sitting on one couch, she and Elizaveta were seated on the carpet by the fireplace like children, Ivan was sitting in the window seat of one of the giant windows in the room, and Roderich was resting on the other couch.

"I like reading," Elizaveta said. "I'm kind of boring. But you're a fashion designer, right, Miss Mancham?"

"Yes."

Francis nodded in appreciation. "Have you ever been to Fashion Week?"

_"Oui... _the one in Paris was by far the best."

"Oh, you speak French?" Francis asked. "You are quite the lady."

Roderich woke up from his little catnap when a particularly loud rumble of thunder shook the mansion. "What time is it?"

Elizaveta checked her phone (which still wasn't getting signal). "It's nine-thirty."

"I think I'm going to go downstairs to the kitchen and make some hot chocolate." The Austrian looked around nervously. "Would anyone care to accompany me?"

Francis grabbed his revolver. "I'll do it."

The two men began walking downstairs cautiously. Thankfully, all the lights were on, and a few people were still in the Dining Hall, chatting and finishing up dessert. Francis and Roderich headed into the kitchen. Two other people were already in there, making ice cream sundaes.

"Hi, Alfred. Hi, Mr. Vargas," Francis said. The kitchen was large enough that Alfred and Feliciano were only taking up a tiny space, so Roderich and Francis went to the other end of the massive room and began boiling milk and gathering ingredients. Then it happened.

Francis heard someone in the Dining Hall screaming. Suddenly, the door that attached the kitchen to the Dining Hall swung open, and the other Vargas sibling stood there, clutching his handgun and looking around wildly.

"Lovino? What's wrong?" Feliciano called, abandoning his ice cream and rushing over to his shaken brother.

"Someone—someone! _Qualcuno è morto... _Feliciano..."

"What happened? We don't speak Ita—" Alfred began, but was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. Feliciano had dropped his ice cream bowl, and pieces of glass and sprinkles littered the tile floor. The cheery Feliciano was completely pale, his eyes wide and his hands clutching the black granite counter beside him.

"He said someone's dead," Feliciano gasped. "Someone else."

"I saw," Lovino said in English. "I was in my room on the third floor, but I decided to come downstairs to get something to eat. I knew people were still down here. And I find a dead person! What the hell is going on?!"

"Who was it?" Francis demanded.

"Come s-see, bastard! I ran down here as fast as I could! I told the people in the Dining Hall, and they went to check it out."

"We should go," Francis said to Roderich.

"Can I tag along?" Alfred asked.

The group of five exited through the now-empty Dining Hall and began walking up to the second level. A large number of people were gathered in the entry hall of the second floor, and the group went over to see what everyone was looking at.

Roderich was the first person to approach the gathering of people. He sort of fell backward onto Francis, his face as pale as Feliciano's had been in the kitchen. _"Mein Gott_—"

Francis shouldered his way through the crowd.

And instantly regretted it.

It was even worse than seeing Lien Chung. At least she'd been minimally scarred and covered in roses and petals.

But there on the luxurious carpeted hallway, Antonio's body was sprawled out in a pool of blood. It seemed that he'd been shot in the chest with an arrow and then stabbed in the throat. Francis backed away, tears rising in his eyes. It was horrific. Absolutely horrific.

* * *

"Francis, Francis, Francis..." Arthur rubbed the distressed man's shoulders. Francis had dropped to the ground by the crime scene, curled into a ball and sobbing hysterically.

Most people were expressing their shock in one of two ways. Either they were behaving like Francis, crying or screaming uncontrollably, or they were like Arthur, who tended to respond to situations like these with stunned silence rather than hysterics. Arthur felt his legs and arms going numb. He'd been writing, but once he heard screams coming from the hallway, he went outside to see what was going on. And he'd stumbled upon a group of people gathered around Antonio's body.

"I don't want to die," wailed Francis.

Arthur crouched by the chef. "Shh, shh, Francis. Francis, calm down."

Francis grabbed onto Arthur's shirt, howling. _"__Que Dieu nous vienne en aide... Non, non, non!" _

"Francis," Arthur pleaded. "Calm down, it'll be all right."

"Mr. Bonnefoy is right," Elizaveta said dully. "At this rate, we'll all be dead by morning. Except for the killer, you know." Her eyes, which had once been a warm green, were as cold as steel. "How dare you? Turn yourself in! Why do you do this?"

Berwald turned to the crowd. "Everyone, go to bed _now. _Don't come out until tomorrow morning. Seven o'clock at the earliest. We are going to have a meeting tomorrow, and if you're still alive when the sun rises, you need to show up." The Swedish man glanced at Antonio one last time, his expression neutral, then turned and walked away.

Arthur watched the attorney leave, his frown deepening as he patted Francis' back comfortingly.

Something didn't feel right about that man.

* * *

Natalia paced her room. She hadn't left since she'd discovered Travail's body. Or Lien Chung. Or whoever the hell that woman was.

Her room was extravagant, as all of the guest rooms were, but in the few hours she'd been barricaded in it, she'd destroyed it. Natalia had thrown her knives into the walls, leaving deep marks everywhere. She'd dented the wooden desk and its chair using the solid metal fire poker by the room's fireplace. And in a moment of pure terror and insanity, she'd rushed into the beautiful attached bathroom with the fire poker and demolished the mirror. Tiny fragments of the reflective glass were everywhere, and Natalia's feet were covered in small gashes. Wherever she walked, blood splattered the floor.

She wished she'd never agreed to go to the refreshment cycle. She pictured Travail again. She screamed and grabbed a flower vase off a shelf, tossing it across the room and falling to the carpet. She crawled over to the far corner of the room.

She curled up and waited to die.


	7. Day 3 - Breakfast

_You guys, someone posted a review on this story from my account. Does anyone know of a way you can secure FanFiction accounts? I already changed my password, but I still feel kind of uncomfortable. It may have been my friend trying to make me look stupid, though. I should probably ask._

* * *

Twenty-two people sat around the majestic Dining Hall table, which was laden with breakfast foods, fruit platters, and pitchers of various chilled drinks. The rain was still as heavy as ever, and the mood of the mansion guests was suffocating.

"Where is Miss Arlovskaya?" Berwald asked.

"Probably in her room," Elizaveta answered. "Hopefully not dead."

"Will someone come with me to fetch her?" requested Berwald. "Perhaps two people?"

Mei looked at her plate, pretending to examine her strawberries, and said nothing. She hadn't slept at all. She'd sat awake in her room with all the lights on, dragging any object she could lift in front of her door. She imagined many of the other guests had done the same. After seeing Mr. Carriedo... Mei coughed.

"No? Then I'll go by myself," Berwald said, clearly growing impatient.

Ivan stood up. "Let's go, Mr. Oxenstierna."

Mei turned to Kiku. "Mr. Honda, do you really think it's one of us who—you know?" She lowered her voice. "I'm just so scared."

"I understand," Kiku replied quietly. "I suppose we've just got to wait and see what this meeting is going to be about."

"Geez, I hope Natalia's alive," Mei added. The violinist glanced around the table. Everyone's plates were full, which bothered Mei. If there was a killer among them, shouldn't he—or she, of course—look neutral or bored? Even Lukas Bondevik seemed too shaken to eat or even chat with anyone else. Still, Mei supposed, a good killer would know not to look or behave in any way that made them stand out.

Berwald and Ivan returned down the stairs.

"Where's Miss Arlovskaya?" Arthur demanded.

Ivan shook his head. "She's alive. She wouldn't leave her room. And she's got something in front of her door that's too heavy to move. I think she's going crazy."

"She killed them, probably," said Mathias, but his voice was lifeless. He clearly didn't believe what he was saying.

Berwald poured himself a glass of apple juice. "Miss Héderváry, where were you last night?"

Elizaveta jumped. "What? I was in the List Lounge with Mr. Kirkland, Michelle, Mr. Bonnefoy, Dr. Braginsky, and Mr. Edelstein." She looked nauseous. "Oh my God. Are you trying to accuse me of killing Mr. Carriedo? I wasn't me, I swear—"

"She _was_ in the List Lounge," Ivan said. "Look at all these witnesses you've got."

Berwald raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture. "I don't mean to offend, Miss Héderváry. Clearly you were in the List Lounge after dinner, so it wasn't you. Now, now, let's see... Miss Xiao? Mr. Galante? Where were you two?"

Mei's gaze shot up from her uneaten fruit. "Excuse me?"

Raivis looked just as startled. "I was in the Dining Hall."

"I was in my room," Mei said. "After we found Travail—"

"Lien Chung," Ivan corrected.

"After we found Miss Chung, I went to my room," Mei said. "And I came downstairs around, oh, nine-fifteen? I went to the kitchen to make something to eat."

"She's telling the truth," Alfred spoke up. "I was making ice cream sundaes with Feliciano in there around nine-fifteen. Mei came downstairs, got some chocolate, then left."

"I went back into the Dining Hall," continued Mei. "I was chatting with the Beilschmidts. We all drank some coffee right at this table. And then Mr. Vargas came running downstairs, screaming about Mr. Carriedo. So we all went upstairs to investigate."

"But you could have killed him before going down to the kitchen," Berwald said.

"It wasn't her," Lovino growled. "Remember, Miss Xiao?"

"Oh! Right!" Mei turned to Berwald. "Before I went down to the kitchen, I passed Mr. Carriedo and Mr. Vargas in the second story hallway—"

"Which Vargas?" someone asked.

"Um, Mr. Lovino and Mr. Carriedo were talking," Mei said. "When I went downstairs, I mean. So he was still alive then. I couldn't have killed him. Why would you even accuse me of that?"

"He was shot with an arrow," Ivan said. "It could have been anyone with a bow. You, Mr. Galante, and Miss Héderváry all have forms of archery weapons."

"He was also stabbed," Arthur snapped. "So what's to say it wasn't Miss Arlovskaya?"

Berwald ignored Arthur and looked at Lovino. "So you were the last person to see Antonio alive? And you were also the first person to see him dead? Interesting."

Lovino's eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to say that _I_—"

"Wait, wait," Ludwig said. "Isn't Miss Arlovskaya's room right next to where Mr. Carriedo was killed? Couldn't she have done it and then retreated back into her room?"

Alfred snorted. "That girl is a psycho, man. Did you hear her sobbing? She's snapped. Lost it."

Elizaveta raised an eyebrow. "She was in the Olympics. And I watched her on television—this was before meeting her, of course—and my mother really liked the way she skated, so she looked her up online. And apparently she has, um, mental issues. So maybe she _did _snap."

Lovino elbowed Feliciano. "Hey, _fratello_, remember when we all watched the Winter Olympics? Didn't the commentator say something along the same lines? That Natalia was amazing for overcoming her issues and achieving such great things?"

Ivan frowned. "Why didn't we _all _hear this?"

"We're all from different countries," Ludwig pointed out. "Of course our commentators wouldn't be the same people, right?"

Yong-Soo Im nodded. "Well, that would make sense. Maybe she didn't kill Lien Chung, but Lien Chung's death made her break."

"And she's locked herself in her room because she can't face us or her guilt," Mathias added quickly. "That is possible, right, Dr. Braginsky? After a stressful event, that a person would do that?"

"People react to trauma in all different ways," Ivan said neutrally. "But yes, what you are saying is possible."

"Even if Natalia snapped and killed Antonio, there's still the Lien Chung issue," Gilbert said. "Who killed _her_?"

Ivan shook his head. "I don't know. No one knows. I say we should all just stay on alert. Don't walk around by yourself. I think none of us are stupid enough to assume people are coming to rescue us, so we should all just try to wait this out. If we catch the killer—" Ivan broke off, but his words were pretty self-explanatory.

People began to leave the Dining Hall. Some were headed to various lounges in the house. Most were going back to their rooms. Mei wanted to run outside—who even cared about rain anymore?—and flee all the way to the river surrounding the property. She'd swim across. But she knew that the current was too fast and the river was too wide, and there was no sense in telling herself that she wouldn't drown if she tried to cross the river.

Still. Just thinking about Antonio's lifeless body—blank green eyes, arrow through the back, blood everywhere—made Mei come to a very simple conclusion.

She would drown herself before she went like the Spaniard had.

* * *

"Are you doing all right?" Berwald sat down next to Mathias by the fireplace in the List Lounge.

"I'm fine," Mathias replied emotionlessly. The fire reflected in his tired blue eyes.

"Did you have breakfast?"

"I wasn't hungry," Mathias said.

"You should eat." Berwald frowned. "Look, Mathias, I know this is kind of upsetting—"

The Dane turned rapidly. "_Kind _of upsetting? Are you kidding? Two people were killed! Did you even _see _Antonio? Did you see how horrendous it was? What about that terrible flower crown Lien Chung was wearing? And who the hell even dropped off these weapons?" Mathias picked up his ax and gave it a shake. "I mean, I know you're really used to seeing murder cases. You've probably seen worse than what happened to Antonio. So it probably doesn't bother you. But I—"

"It bothers me," Berwald said gently. "It does."

Mathias dug around for something in his pocket. "Who would do something like this?"

"What are you doing?"

The Scandinavian pulled his phone out of the pocket of his jeans. "What will my family do if I die?"

"I don't know. I don't think you're going to die."

"You don't know that." Mathias held up his phone to Berwald. "This is a photo I took of my family last year. On Christmas Eve."

Berwald examined the photo. Two people who looked like Mathias' parents stood in front of Christmas tree, an older-looking—maybe eighteen or nineteen—teenaged girl between them. All were blond-haired, blue-eyed, and smiling.

"Your parents and sister?"

Mathias nodded.

"That's a really nice photo." Berwald stared at it. It was excellent quality, obviously taken with a very professional camera. "You took it?"

"I'm a photographer," Mathias said.

Berwald looked at the photo again. It was a lovely picture, but for some reason, it made him uncomfortable.

"I love them so much," Mathias said, jolting Berwald out of his thoughts.

"Mathias..." Berwald stared at the fire. "I'm so, so sorry. Don't worry. We're going to get through this."


	8. Day 3 - Noon

_Turns out it _was _my friend who posted that review, but I've still changed my password. Geez. Enjoy and please let me know what you think!_

* * *

Around noon, more thunder and lightning began to roll through. Power became questionable, and everyone was on edge as the lights flickered on and off.

After the third time that the house was subjected to darkness, Ludwig stood up. "I'm going to go look for more candles. Anyone want to join me?" He looked around the List Lounge, where a large group of people were also sitting around. Lukas looked up from his phone. "I'll come."

"I will, too," Yong-Soo said, standing up and following.

The air was tense as the trio began searching the house for alternative light sources. Ludwig was extremely aware that either of the men standing before him were perfectly capable killers, even if they just looked like a slightly pensive nineteen-year-old Norwegian student and a twenty-year-old K-Pop heartthrob.

"So," Lukas asked once they'd gathered a few handfuls of candles from the first floor, "what made you guys decide to come to the refreshment cycle?"

"My brother made me," Ludwig said.

"My manager told me to take a break," Yong-Soo added.

Lukas nodded as they walked up the staircase. He grabbed a few candles off the windowsill and said, "Did you guys know that there is a pool here?"

"Oh, really?" Ludwig asked. "Where?"

"First floor. It's—who's there?" The three men froze when they heard footsteps coming from a bend down the wide hallway.

"It's just me! Alfred!" the American was emerging from his room. His hair was soaking wet, and though he was wearing dry clothing, he had a towel draped over his shoulders, and he shuffled awkwardly out of his room and shut the door. "I'm sorry. I had to take a shower. Is everything okay?"

"We're just looking for candles," Lukas said evenly, lowering his sword. "Would you like to join us?"

* * *

"That's so weird," Alfred said. "Guys, listen."

The four guests had combed through the entire mansion and collected enough candles and matches to last a lifetime, but as they were walking back down to the List Lounge, Alfred stopped them outside of Natalia's room.

"What is it?" Ludwig asked, moving to stand by Alfred. He rested his ear against her door and listened. It was still raining, but the rain sounded strange in her room. He tilted his head, beckoning Lukas and Yong-Soo over.

They both listened. "We should break inside," Lukas said. "She's been in there for way too long. We need to get her to eat something or at least calm her down a bit. I know she's got knives, but there's four of us, so we should be able to protect ourselves if she's being too wild."

Ludwig rested his hands against the door. "Okay. On the count of three?"

"One," Alfred said.

"Two," Yong-Soo chimed in nervously.

"Three!" Lukas yelled, and they threw themselves at the door. It opened, and they tumbled into the dark room.

The first thing they noticed was the window. Natalia's room had a large bay window with a window seat, but the window was obliterated and shards of glass were all over the carpet. Rain had been coming into the room and battering the floor, which was what sounded strange. The room was a mess, too—things broken, slashes in the wall—but...

"No," Alfred cried, backing up and running into Ludwig.

"What?" Ludwig demanded, tearing his eyes away from the window.

His eyes widened.

Natalia was lying under the broken window, covered in rainwater.

Facedown.

Dead.

* * *

"Two words?" Raivis called.

"Four syllables!" Elizaveta joined in.

Gilbert nodded, making a few hand gestures.

"Love?"

"Marriage? Marry?"

"Santa!"

"Marry holidays? What?!"

"Oh—oh! Merry Christmas!" Mei shouted vigorously.

Gilbert laughed. "You got it, kid!"

Elizaveta, Mei, Gilbert, Mathias, Raivis, and Katyusha were sitting in the List Lounge, waiting for Gilbert, Lukas, and Yong-Soo to get back with candles. Someone had suggested playing charades to lighten the mood, and it was working fairly well.

Until Alfred burst into the room, gasping for air and setting a bunch of unlit tea lights on the table. "Natalia's dead."

"Wh-what?" Katyusha stammered, feeling the atmosphere of the room change drastically. "How do you know?"

"We broke into her room," Lukas said, appearing in the doorway beside Alfred and rubbing the American's shoulders. "We heard weird noises coming from her room, so we went inside. It was a disaster. Broken window and bathroom mirror—glass everywhere."

"Oh," Mei said. No one could think of anything to say.

"Does... does everyone else know?" Gilbert finally asked.

"No," Ludwig said. "Gilbert, can I speak to you for a moment?"

Gilbert stood up, trying to hide his trembling hands, and followed his brother so that they stood in the hallway, just outside the List Lounge.

"I'm sorry," Gilbert said. "I'm so, so sorry. I love you. And if you die because I forced you to come to this—"

"It's okay," Ludwig interrupted, trying hard not to think of Natalia and the way the raindrops had looked on her porcelain-colored skin. The way her light hair had been splayed all over the ground, beautiful and shiny. Ludwig's grip tightened on his pistol. "I'm going to go to my room."

* * *

Eduard von Bock heard rather distressed wailing coming from second floor. He'd been having tea with Toris Laurinaitis and Arthur Kirkland in a parlor on the first floor, but told them he was going to investigate. They were concerned, and Toris even gave Eduard one of his throwing knives.

As Eduard walked down the hallway to the grand staircase, he realized how eerily empty it was. He knew there were people upstairs and that Arthur and Toris were back in that sitting room, but most everyone was locked in their rooms, hiding.

Something shattered.

Eduard jumped, stopping in his tracks. The sound came from behind a closed door. Making sure he had his tranquilizing dart gun and Toris' knife ready, he knocked on the door and called out a weak "Hello?"

Inside the room, another item broke. Eduard took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.

The door opened, and Eduard stepped inside, making sure one foot was propping the door open. The room was very dark, but Eduard could see rows and rows of bookshelves and a desk on a raised platform by a bunch of floor-to-ceiling windows. The rain pounded against them, the sky a dark gray. The room appeared to be a library or a study.

The Estonian man ducked when a silvery object flew toward him. He gasped when it missed his head by an inch, fracturing itself on the door. Avoiding the object meant he'd had to move his foot out of the door, which was now shut. He tried turning the handle, but it was locked.

Borderline panicking, Eduard looked around. The silver object was cracked into several pieces, and when he looked at them, he saw himself.

It was a broken mirror.

"No," he whispered, pulling out the tranquilizers and glancing around the room. Two wineglasses were demolished about twenty feet away from him, which were probably the first two things that had been smashed. "No!"

The person who had thrown the mirror and lured him inside by breaking glasses was probably hiding in the shadow of a bookshelf. Eduard could not see him, but he fell onto his hands and knees when something else was thrown at him.

When this thing broke, dark liquid splattered everywhere. Eduard realized it was an ink bottle.

Wineglasses. A mirror. An ink bottle.

Eduard heard a very distinct sound come from the back of the study. A sound that made his heart drop.

Someone was loading a gun.

He knew that this was the end for him.


	9. Day 3 - Evening

The door to the library on the first floor was slightly ajar, though the room beyond was dark.

"What do ya think is in there?" Mathias asked Lukas, pointing his ax at the doorway. A whole bunch of other guests had gone to see Natalia and her room, but Mathias was sick to his stomach and definitely not in the mood to see another corpse. Travail had been the first dead person he'd ever seen. Add in Antonio _and _Miss Arlovskaya, and the ordeal was a little unbearable. He'd asked someone to go down to the Dining Hall with him to make chamomile tea, and Lukas had volunteered.

"I think it's a library or a study," Lukas said. "I haven't actually been inside, though."

At that moment, the power flickered back on, illuminating a few dark splatters on the floor.

"What's that?" Mathias exclaimed.

Lukas handed Mathias the candle they'd been using and bent down to examine the dots. "I think it's ink," he replied, looking at Mathias with a trace of confusion on his face.

Mathias shrugged, blowing out the candle and setting it on a small side table. He stepped forward and prodded the door with his ax, causing it to swing open completely.

His bloodcurdling scream, much louder than the storm outside, echoed through the entire building.

* * *

"Good God," Arthur murmured. "Two people gone in just one day? This is absurd. This—Mr. Laurinaitis, didn't we tell him to be careful?"

Toris' eyes were wide with fear, and he nodded, one hand covering his mouth.

"Oh my God," Elizaveta said. "Guys, look." She pointed at the wall of the study that Eduard's dead body was leaning against. Black ink was everywhere, but Eduard's hand had dipped into the dark pool on the ground and his trembling finger had, before death, written out a single, shaky word on the wall.

_ITALY_

Ivan narrowed his eyes. "He was shot twice. Once in the leg, once in the head. He was obviously shot in the leg first, then he wrote out the message, then the killer decided that was the end."

Arthur looked around the gathering of people. "Mr. Lovino, Mr. Feliciano—"

"Now, hold on, bastard," Lovino interrupted. "You can't possibly think that _we _did this!"

"Well, you're the only Italians here," Arthur said, pointing at Eduard's dying message.

Ivan was staring at the broken items on the floor. Shards of wineglass were sprinkled around like confetti, and the broken mirror looked especially ominous. "You... you aren't, by any chance, a member of any sort of crime organization, are you?" he asked.

"Of course not," Lovino snapped. "Why the hell do you ask?"

"I just know that a certain... _family_... of the Italian mafia has an interesting habit of leaving broken wineglasses around before making a kill." He shrugged. "Unfortunately, I cannot remember which."

"You think all this is because of the _mafia_?" Roderich Edelstein exclaimed indignantly. "That's ridiculous. I have never—"

"Mr. Lovino," Ivan said. "Now would be a good time to confess."

Lovino looked outraged and terrified. "This isn't my fucking fault."

Mei frowned. "Dr. Braginsky, how do _you _know about the wineglass thing?"

Ivan stared at her for a moment, thinking of how to say what he needed to say in such a way that made him sound innocent. "I happen to know—or knew—Mr. von Bock," the doctor said slowly, his voice cold and steady. "Though we haven't been in contact for maybe eight years."

"From what?" Gilbert asked.

"We are both twenty-six," Ivan continued in that eerie, measured pace. "When I was much younger—seventeen, eighteen—we met through the Russian mafia."

"And _I'm _the guilty one?" Lovino roared.

"I can recall several occasions where we had run-ins with the Italians," Ivan countered. "So of course we were both well aware of the meaning of the wineglasses. Now, Mr. Lovino, please tell me: was it you? Was Eduard just another assignment? Another person you were ordered to take down?"

"Please stop!" Feliciano exclaimed, throwing himself in front of his brother in a protective motion. "I'm sure my brother is not capable of this level of horror."

"Based on everything you've said, it could be _you," _Lovino spat at Ivan. "Now, excuse me. I'll be down for dinner."

* * *

Dinner was a tense meal. Only a few people even showed up, so Elizaveta had plenty of seating options. Of course, she knew that even if _everyone _came down for dinner, there would still be a couple empty seats, but the thought made her shiver.

She couldn't believe at least two people in the mansion—even if one of them was dead—were associated with the mafia.

"Pass the dressing?"

Elizaveta snapped out of her thoughts and passed the salad dressing to Yao Wang, who was sitting to her left.

"Thank you." The Chinese man's eyes darted across the table to the vacant seat where Lovino Vargas had been sitting before going upstairs to bed. "I think Mr. Vargas left his watch on the table."

"Under normal circumstances, I'd take it up to his room, but I don't want to go up there alone," Elizaveta laughed anxiously, sipping her water.

"I'll go with you as soon as I finish this salad," he offered.

Once he'd cleared his bowl, he thanked Francis for the delicious meal, grabbed Lovino's watch (which appeared to be very, _very_ expensive) and beckoned Elizaveta along with him. "So... your name is Miss Héderváry?"

Elizaveta grabbed her quiver of arrows and followed Yao up the extravagant staircase. "Right. You're Mr. Wang, right? What do you do for a living?"

"I am an English teacher in Shanghai," he answered. "And yourself?"

"Oh, I'm eighteen. I'm just a student," Elizaveta said. "I thought this refreshment cycle would be a nice break from my studies. I was terribly mistaken."

They stopped in front of Lovino's door, which was closed. Nervously, Elizaveta dug her toes into the plush Turkish carpet covering the hall's floors. "Mr. Vargas?"

"I'm getting in the shower," came the terse reply. "What do you need?"

"You left your watch on the table," Yao called.

"The door isn't locked," Lovino shouted back. "Just set it on my nightstand, please."

Elizaveta and Yao exchanged glances. Elizaveta loaded an arrow into her crossbow and Yao brandished his Dao, and they went inside slowly. The door to the room's bathroom was shut, and Elizaveta could hear the shower running. She saw Lovino's suitcase tucked against one wall. The chandelier was turned off, but a lamp on the nightstand provided adequate light. Yao set the watch on the table, then stopped. "Oh my God... Miss Héderváry?"

"What?" Elizaveta asked, walking over to the bed. "What's the—holy shit," she gasped. "Excuse my language, but..."

"I agree," Yao whispered. "This is not good."

Tucked under Lovino's canopied bed, nearly hidden in shadow, was a giant sniper rifle.


	10. Day 3 - Dinner

"Well, I'm glad you are not too worried about the situation at hand, Mr. Kirkland. Perhaps we can have some intelligent conversation without dying of fright." Francis set his napkin down and stabbed his steak with his knife in one swift, violent motion, staring coldly at Arthur. His words were sharp and challenging.

"Intelligent conversation?" sneered Arthur.

"Oh, will you two stop fighting already?" Alfred snapped. "You're both such little bitches. I'm going to go sit with the Beilschmidts." The teen grabbed his dinner plate and water glass, glared at the two men, and hurried off to the other end of the Dining Hall.

Arthur sighed. "To be perfectly honest, I'm extremely uncomfortable right now." He looked over at Francis, as if wondering whether he'd said too much, before adding, "But who wouldn't be?"

"I'm not going to lie, I really thought it was Natalia." Francis leaned against his chair, fiddling absentmindedly with his steak knife. "Her death makes me very nervous. Who else would be crazy enough to murder a bunch of strangers?"

"Maybe it's her," Arthur said. "I know she's dead. But haven't you ever read Agatha Christie?"

Francis raised an eyebrow.

"_And Then There Were None_? No? Well, of course not, I wouldn't expect _you _to be reading anything like that in your spare time." Arthur's voice became presumptuous. "As an author, of course I've had to—"

"All right, all right," Francis coughed. "Since you're so much better than everyone else here, why don't you tell me who's the killer?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and he let out an offended little snort. "I know it wasn't me. Though you seem to be a bloody obnoxious wanker, I don't believe it's you, either. If not Natalia—if there's no grand conspiracy going on—I suppose I've got my suspicions about Lovino or Ivan."

The Brit and the Frenchman lowered their voices, discussing the possibilities of the other guests, while, on the third floor, Elizaveta and Yao fretted over the deadly weapon they had just discovered.

"This... I..." Elizaveta shook her head slowly, her wavy brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. "This isn't what killed Eduard, is it?"

"No," Yao said. "At least, I don't think so. I don't have much experience with guns, but couldn't this do much more damage?"

The shower in the bathroom shut off. Lovino would be out in a moment.

"What do we do?" Elizaveta whispered, eyes widening in fear.

There was a knock at the door, and Lovino barked out an impatient, "I'll be there in just a moment!"

"Hide!" Yao hissed, shoving the Hungarian girl under the bed. He grabbed the rifle and his dao and ducked into the closet. Elizaveta's hand tightened around her bow and her heart hammered as she heard Lovino walk out of the bathroom and answer the door. She dared to lift the bed skirt a fraction of a centimeter, but all she could see were dim shadows the bottom of the nightstand.

"Katyusha, was it? Did you need something?" Lovino asked.

Elizaveta felt herself relax. Miss Braginskaya had seemed sweet and pleasant and motherly. Maybe things would be okay. _Please, God, let things be okay._

"Oh, yes. I know Elizaveta and Yao came by a bit ago to drop off the watch you left in the Dining Hall. They hadn't returned, so I thought I might check on things here."

"They already left," Lovino replied, sounding irritated. "Why? Did you think they wouldn't make it out of the mobster's room alive?"

"No, that isn't it—"

"Everyone already thinks it's me," snapped Lovino. "Don't bother."

"Well, to be fair, we have reason to believe it's you." Katyusha's voice had an edge to it that Elizaveta had not heard before. "I mean, you're potentially dangerous—"

"So are you."

"I'm not a member of the mafia!"

"Well, Ivan Braginsky is, and I don't see you interrogating him! Good night, Miss Braginskaya!" Elizaveta heard the door slam shut and lock. A few seconds later, the bed above her shifted, and she realized Lovino was lying down. She wanted to yell in frustration, but a moment later, the mattress lurched again. Light flooded her face, and she realized Lovino was peeking under the bed.

"What the fuck?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM?!" Lovino shouted, stumbling backwards in surprise.

Elizaveta screamed, trying to move in every direction at once. She hit her head on the bed, which only fueled her panic. Grabbing her crossbow, she rolled away from Lovino, coming out from under the canopied bed on the opposite side of Italian. The brunette stood quickly, notching an arrow and pulling back, aiming for Lovino's face. She knew she could hit on target. As a child, her older brother had a bow, and he'd taught her to shoot in her free time. It had not been a coincidence that she had chosen this as her weapon.

"Wait! Stop!" Lovino roared, holding up both hands in surrender. "STOP!"

Both teens were breathing heavily. Elizaveta lowered her bow slowly, feeling nauseous. She had just been prepared to kill. To kill another human being. "Lovino." She glanced toward the closet, but thankfully, he didn't seem to notice. "Listen, just calm down, would you? Could we have a cup of tea in the List Lounge and get this all sorted out...?"

* * *

Meanwhile, the other Vargas brother had just finished his dinner and was heading upstairs to his room when he heard someone running after him, calling his name. For a split second, he was scared. His hand found his gun, but when he saw Gilbert Beilschmidt approaching him, he relaxed. "Hello."

"Hi." Gilbert took a moment to catch his breath and smiled. He pointed to the end of the hallway, where there was an elegant floor-to-ceiling window with a pillowed window seat. "Could we sit for a second? I'd like to talk. I, uh, brought chocolate, too." The German fumbled around in his fleece jacket pocket for a second before pulling a few candy squares out. Feliciano laughed, following Gilbert to the seat. They set their firearms down on the ground.

Gilbert glanced around, as if making sure no one else was around—Feliciano wasn't particularly worried, as only a few other people's bedrooms were on this particular hallway, and what could Gilbert possibly have to say that needed to be so secretive?—before beginning. "Do you love Lovino?"

Feliciano was confused. "He is my brother. Of course I do."

"So you understand. You understand the need people feel to protect their families."

"Familial love is a powerful force," Feliciano agreed carefully, wondering where this was going.

Gilbert leaned forward. "I need you to do me a favor," he said. His voice was so quiet that Feliciano could barely hear him over the pounding rain outside.

"I can try. What is it?"

"You are Lovino's brother. I am sure he treasures you. And Ludwig is my brother, so I treasure him. I need... I would like..."

"You think Lovino is a heartless murderer and you want to save your brother by having me protect him," Feliciano filled in.

Gilbert faltered. He rested his face against the cold window, staring at the rain droplets on the windowpane. He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. I understand your concern." Feliciano stood up. "I know Lovino looks very suspicious right now, Gilbert. But trust me, I don't think you have anything to be worried about. Not from _him, _at least. Good night."

* * *

Francis was cleaning up dinner in the kitchen with Arthur, who had actually volunteered to help him clean up. They were washing dishes and putting things away, chatting casually. They'd already discussed everyone in the mansion, weapons, and possible motives and opportunities, and now they'd moved onto lighter topics, like literature and their hometowns.

Francis pretended not to notice that two wineglasses were missing—shattered and in the study, used to lure Eduard to his death. Francis pretended not to notice any of this, tried to lose himself in cleaning some salad bowls. It wasn't working.

The Frenchman pulled open a drawer to get a clean rag. As he unfolded it, something fell out of it and landed on the floor.

"What was that?" Arthur asked, looking over at Francis.

Francis leaned down to the tiled floor. A pair of glasses, one of the lenses broken, had been wrapped up in the towel.

"Whose are those?" Arthur picked up the glasses, examining them.

Francis felt uneasy. "I've no idea..."


	11. Day 3 - Night

"Here. In here." Lovino pointed to a sitting room on the second floor. Music was drifting out of the room, but it wasn't anything anyone would we blasting from a phone dock. No, Roderich Edelstein sat at a grand piano by the window of the sitting room, his fingers flying across the keys. Raivis Galante and Toris Laurinaitis sat on one of the plush couches, drinking hot chocolate. If not for the shaken look in their eyes, Elizaveta would have mistaken the scene for a peaceful one. Still, she knew Lovino had purposely chosen this room because there were other people in it, which would make them both more comfortable. She was grateful.

"Oh, hi," Toris said uneasily, pushing a stray lock of brown hair behind his ear. He set his hot chocolate mug down on the glass table, and Elizaveta heard it rattle.

She realized most of the house guests were convinced that Lovino was a murderer. She was torn. The rifle was so suspicious, but—

Lovino cleared his throat, pointing at the unoccupied couch. "Sit. I mean, err, if you want."

Toris and Raivis abruptly stood up from the other couch, grabbing their mugs. Raivis mumbled something about needing to charge his phone (though Elizaveta hadn't seen him on it all vacation), and Toris stuttered out an excuse about going down to the kitchen to make more hot chocolate. The two Baltic men scurried out, throwing one last glance at Lovino before their footsteps could be heard sounding down the hall. Roderich paused his playing for a moment. "You two look as if you're about to have a conversation. I do hope my music is not too loud, but if it is, I expect you to relocate."

"No, no, you're fine," Elizaveta said quickly, and the ballads continued a moment later. The Hungarian looked out the dark window. The rain blocked the moon and the stars, and she could see nothing. At least the sitting room was brightly lit, with soft carpeting, bright wall lights, and a few bookshelves.

"So," Lovino said after a moment, his voice low so that Roderich would not hear, "what do I have to do to keep you quiet about the rifle?"

Elizaveta paused, considering her words carefully. "Why must I keep quiet about the rifle?"

"Oh, bullshit. You know I'm already suspicious enough. Better not add to that." He looked down at his hands. "I really am innocent, you know. Well, I didn't kill anyone _here_... Elizaveta, it wasn't my fault. So what'll keep you quiet about this? Money? Do you need someone out of the picture? What is it?"

She realized she, a humble little eighteen-year-old student, had a powerful mafia member with his back to the wall, and she was more than capable of pulling the (metaphorical!) trigger. What an interesting situation this was. "Listen, don't give me any of your stolen money or anything. And please, for the love of God, do not kill anyone in my name." She shuddered at the thought. "However, if you want me to stay quiet..."

"Yes?" Lovino prompted.

Elizaveta smiled. "You'll just have to tell me everything."

* * *

Ivan Braginsky sat on his bed, laptop open and bottle of vodka at his side. Sure, there was no Internet connection in the mansion, so he couldn't do anything particularly useful, but he did have a Word document open with a list of everyone's weapons. He was looking for any sort of hints about who the killer was, but at the moment, it could be anyone. It could even be him, if someone were hell-bent on making a case against him.

Ivan was still deeply disturbed by Eduard's death. He was also disturbed by the fact he was probably the second most suspicious house guest, right after Lovino. Ivan had known Eduard years ago, back when he'd worked with the mafia. Well, _worked _was sort of an overstatement. Ivan had not ever been deeply entrenched in the Russian syndicate, though it had been difficult to leave after making a small connection with them. But he wasn't important enough to the mafia to be threatening, so they'd let him go without much of a fight.

Ivan was not exactly sure of Eduard's connection or closeness with the mafia, but he did know that Eduard owed someone of the Vargas family a large amount of money. But he had also been in debt to Ivan when Ivan was eighteen. The debt had never been repaid, but when Ivan turned nineteen, he let it go in order to cut all ties with the mafia. He relocated cities, moved far away, became a doctor in St. Petersburg. He assumed he'd never see anyone from that part of his past again. So when he'd shown up for the refreshment cycle eight years later to find Eduard...

And now he looked just as equally guilty as that Vargas bastard!

He took a giant chug of vodka and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Ten years ago, he might have coughed, but now, he barely felt it going down. He stared at his open document, circling his mouse and spacing out. He reached for the bottle on the nightstand again and was in the middle of downing the last of it when someone began banging on his door, startling him so much that he dropped it and the remains spilled over his shirt and sheets. He cursed and attempted to mop up the vodka before giving up, pulling his shirt off, and tossing it to the side. He strode over to the door quickly and opened it to see the tiny Mei Xiao standing in the hallway. She let out a squeak and blushed upon seeing Ivan's shirtless form, and the latter automatically grabbed a blanket to cover himself. "My apologies, Miss Xiao."

"Ah, no—it's fine—" Mei cleared her throat and turned away as Ivan pulled on a clean shirt. "Um, Dr. Braginsky, Mr. Im... Mr. Im—"

"Im Yong-Soo?" Ivan felt nauseous. "What is it? Miss Xiao?"

"He's dead," she whispered. "Dr. Braginsky, they told me to tell you..."

"Wait, why are you alone?" Ivan demanded. "Why the hell would they make you come here alone? It's too dangerous, Miss Xiao. Come on. We need to go."

"No. Stop." Mei grabbed Ivan's sleeve, her eyes wide in fear. "I'm stupid."

"What?"

"I'm stupid, perhaps, but I think you are innocent in this situation. I will tell you this now: Mr. Im is dead and it is hell down there. They are going to hold a trial, and you are one of the prime suspects. They told me to come get you and tell you to come down into the Dining Hall. So I am here, but I listen to what I am saying... I think you are innocent, but they sure don't. It is up to you what you want to do now." Mei backed out of Ivan's room and shut the door.

Ivan could hear her running as fast as she could.

* * *

Gilbert sat with his head against Ludwig's shoulder, staring blankly at the wall opposite to him. Yong-Soo had been poisoned. It made a little bit of sense. He had been in the handful of people who'd attended dinner, and in the middle, he'd said he felt strange and was retiring for the night. Toris and Raivis had been heading to bed and discovered the Korean man lying arched by his bedroom door, eyes glazed in death. Someone had suggested that the killer had slipped a dose of strychnine into Yong-Soo's drink, and there was general assent. Eyes turned to Francis, who had prepared the meals.

The Dining Hall doors burst open and Mei entered the room, sniffling and out of breath, as if she'd been sprinting.

Berwald stood up. "Miss Xiao. Is Dr. Braginsky coming?"

"I told him to," Mei said.

"Did you not tell him it was mandatory?"

"Mr. Oxenstierna," Mei snapped, whirling to face the tall Swede, "anyone here can see you have much, much more than I do in height, strength, and muscle. If you want something done so badly, you ought to do it yourself, instead of sending me up and down the stairs over and over." She stalked over to her chair and took a seat, daintily crossing her legs at the ankle and blinking repeatedly, as if trying to focus through tears. Had the circumstances not been so dire, Gilbert would have applauded Mei. Who would've expected such a small girl to have that kind of sass?

"I have a concern," Mathias said. "What are we supposed to _eat _now?"

"The food is fine to eat," Francis replied.

"Yeah, clearly, since it killed someone," Mathias shot back, rising out of his chair.

"Sit down, Mathias," Ludwig snapped. "It's true that we have no way of knowing what is and isn't poisoned, but this seems like one bad incident. Nothing else yet has made anyone sick. Besides, it was Mr. Im's drink that was poisoned."

"Humans can only survive for three days without water," Mathias retorted.

"You'll be lucky to last that long if you don't shut the fuck up," snorted Lovino.

The Dane turned on Lovino. "Oh-ho, look who's talking, Mr. Mafia Man! Was that a death threat? My, go ahead and shoot me now, just like you murdered everyone else in this damn place!"

"You _bastard_—"

"Stop it!" Michelle shouted. "Would you two quit? You're not solving anything! We need to remain calm. Sit. Down. _Now."_

"I agree with Miss Mancham." The Dining Hall doors opened again and Ivan entered the room, looking cool and confident. He took his seat, which happened to be across from Berwald, and smiled pleasantly. "So, where were we?"

"Sir—" Mei began, but then stopped herself.

Berwald cleared his throat. "So, I suppose we're all here." He paused, locking his icy blue eyes with Ivan's languid violet ones. "I would like to propose something. It would be based on a majority vote, of course, so if you all are against it, it doesn't have to be done."

"We know what a majority vote is," Alfred interrupted. "We've all attended grade school."

"Yes, then." Berwald adjusted his glasses. "I suggest we search the room of every person here. All of us, together, every one. That way it is equal and fair. And if you don't have anything to hide, you shouldn't be opposed to this. Those in favor, please raise your hands."

Every hand in the room went up.

"Why don't we start with the rooms on the second floor, and we can work our way up?" Raivis suggested timidly. There were murmurs of approval, and the group began to make their way upstairs.

Elizaveta, at the back of the group, rushed over to Yao. "Mr. Wang. Where is the rifle?" she hissed quietly while they climbed the wide, spanning staircase.

"It is still in the closet. I didn't want to risk taking it."

Elizaveta's green eyes widened. "They're going to find it."

"It's on Mr. Vargas now." Yao's eyes faced forward solemnly. "Let me tell you now, though, Miss Héderváry. Even if they don't find anything in your room, I know this is about to get brutal. The crowd can and will be merciless. So if you believe in any kind of god, I suggest you start praying now."


End file.
